


Deputy Morris and the Disappearing Man

by sameuspegasus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cas teleports, Dean in jail, Gen, OMC - Freeform, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:25:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sameuspegasus/pseuds/sameuspegasus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A local cop arrests Dean and is bamboozled when a trenchcoated man appears in the cell with his prisoner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deputy Morris and the Disappearing Man

Deputy Morris polished his badge on his sleeve. It was only his second day on the job, and already the Sheriff trusted him to guard the most dangerous man ever to be held in the cells of the Bendy Creek Sheriff’s Building. Of course, Sheriff Stevenson hadn’t had much choice about leaving Dean Winchester under the watchful eye of Deputy Morris. No sooner was Winchester cuffed and locked in the cell, than the phone had rung. Dean Winchester’s brother (equally dangerous and even bigger, apparently) had been seen heading into the Hoolihan farmhouse with what Charlie Bickmore described as “a rocket launcher”. Since it was just the two of them, it fell to Morris to stand guard over the man in the cells.

                “Don’t take your eyes off him,” Sheriff Stevenson had said on his way out the door. “Not for a second. “He’s as smooth as a snake and twice as slippery. He’ll try to charm his way out the moment I’m out the door.”

                So Morris hadn’t taken his eye off Dean Winchester. Not for a second. Not even to check his badge was shiny enough. He was staring straight at Dean, watching every twist of his hands in the handcuffs. If Dean got out – well, Morris had heard stories. Things about blown up police stations and people skinned alive. He tried hard not to think about it, and instead thought about the newspaper articles that would appear after the FBI got here and took Winchester away.

                “Hey, there,” Winchester said, a friendly grin on his face.

                Deputy Morris stood his ground, did not blink, did not take his eye off Dean Winchester, not for a second, and absolutely did not quake in terror.

                “Aren’t you a little young to be a deputy?” Dean asked, still in that friendly, casual tone that _did not scare_ _him at all_. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

                Deputy Morris did not respond. _Do not let him engage you in conversation._ That was the official guideline on what to do upon apprehension of a Winchester. Of course, there had been a message after that saying that the Winchesters were dead again, so it might not be reliable advice. But up till now, following instructions had served him well, so he didn’t reply. Did not blink.  Did not take his eye off him. Not for a second.

                “What do you like to do?” Dean asked genially, “Any hobbies? Seems like we’re gonna be here a while, we might as well make friends. Oh, you like to stare at people, huh?” Dean twiddled his thumbs, seemingly unbothered by the cuffs fastened tightly around his wrists. He sat on the bare cot and leaned against the wall. “I’ve got a friend who does that. It’s sort of creepy. You guys could have contests.”

                Deputy Morris’ eyes were watering with the effort of not blinking. The dangerous criminal that Deputy Morris was absolutely not to stop watching at all, ever, under any circumstances, not even for a split second, was going strangely blurry. He’d never realised quite how painful not blinking could be. And then he couldn’t do it anymore. Really, what could happen in the time it would take him to blink? Dean Winchester was chained up, behind bars. It wasn’t like he could escape or get his hands on a weapon in the time it would take Morris to blink. His eyes would be shut for about a hundredth of a second. Nothing could happen.

                Morris blinked. Shut his eyes thankfully, just for an instant.

                “Hello Dean,” said the guy in the trenchcoat.

                Wait, what?

                Morris blinked again. Yes, there was definitely a guy in a trenchcoat in the cell. He was standing casually in the centre of the cell, looking at Dean Winchester. His trenchcoat was rumpled, his brown hair untidy, like he’d been out in a strong wind.

                What? There had definitely not been a guy in a trenchcoat in that cell half a second ago. Morris would have noticed, surely. He’d checked the cell before the Sheriff had locked Dean in it, making sure there were no weapons anywhere. There was nowhere the guy could have been. He’d even checked under the fold out cot and on the ceiling!

                But how the guy had got in was not the important thing. The important thing was what to do now. Obviously, Mr Trenchcoat couldn’t stay in the cell with Dean. Sheriff Stevenson had made it very clear that Dean was to be left alone in the cell until the FBI arrived, and Deputy Morris was not to take his eye off him, ever. But if he opened the cell to let out the trenchcoat guy, Dean could charge him down and escape. He couldn’t watch them both. A guy only had so many eyes.

                “Took you long enough,” Dean Winchester said, unfolding from his relaxed pose and standing up. “Nice enough place, but the conversation’s a bit one-sided.”

                Just as Morris was deciding circumstances demanded breaking the _do not let him engage you in conversation_ rule, trenchcoat guy, lifted his hand and touched Dean Winchester on the forehead.

                Deputy Morris did not blink. Did not avert his gaze. Did not take his eyes off them. Not even for a second. They were just gone.

                He suddenly felt very woozy.

                When he opened his eyes, he was lying on the floor. The first thing he saw was the empty, locked cell. Oh no. What was he going to tell the Sheriff? He was going to set a new record. Fastest firing in the county in the history of ever. He sat up slowly, trying to remember what the handbook had said about keeping calm when things went south.

                The Sheriff was sitting at his desk, pale-faced and gulping whisky directly from the bottle. “Sonny, here’s some advice,” he said, “Never become a Sheriff. We need to call the – somebody. Old lady Hoolihan’s been eaten by a goat.”


End file.
